


heavenly creatures

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s something she probably shouldn’t be proud of, the delight she takes in teasing him, stepping close, allowing him her mouth, only to step away again, just farther than he can reach. But he makes such delicious sounds, rumbling growls like losing her kiss truly pains him followed by urgent, appreciative moans at her return. His skin heats under her hands, growing warmer with each touch, the muscles alongside his spine rippling when she spreads her fingers wide and pulls him to her.</p><p>“Do you enjoy tormenting me?” he asks, panting, when she withdraws again.</p><p>“I do,” she confesses. “Is that terrible?”</p><p>“It’s wonderful,” he says. “Now come back here.” Still she stays out of reach, loving the way he can’t seem to keep his gaze from dropping to her lips again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heavenly creatures

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt: _Jon/Sansa - After everything that has happened to her, Sansa is skittish in bed. Jon decides to help her overcome her fears by letting Sansa do whatever she wants to him while he's tied to the bed._
> 
> R+L=J

They’ve only lain together twice. The first time was on their wedding night. Sansa is only recently wed to Jon, but she’d loved him long before, had craved his kisses and sought his touch, mostly innocent ones that were all he would give to her before they were wed. She’d responded to those touches, she’d shyly returned his affection and silently asked for more. So it had been all the worse when the bedding came and she’d found herself frozen at his touch, a touch suddenly so different than those they’d shared before, so full of intent and desire. It had made her want to run and hide, to curl into a protective ball. She’d forced herself to lie still, had allowed his attentions, but she could tell by his face that he was confused and dismayed. He’d done his best to coax her and soothe her, but in the end he’d taken her while she lay rigid, her breathing shallow and uneven, her fists clutching her shift tightly to her waist. The look on his face when he spent inside her was so full of self-loathing that she hadn’t been surprised when he’d stayed away from her for several days afterwards.

The second time, she’d been determined to be a proper wife, a true wife. She’d found sweet pleasure before in his kisses and was resolute about finding it in their marriage bed as well. But again her body had frozen and betrayed her, again she’d battled the urge to bolt into flight like a doe scenting a hunter.

Jon is impossibly gentle with her, gentle and sweet, sweeter than any one person could ever deserve. She knows it pains him, each time she flinches and shies away no matter how she tries to calm herself and stop the instinctive reaction, no matter what he attempts to put her at ease, his patience unflagging even as time passes with no change despite his efforts and hers. She’d not hurt him for all the world, if she had her own way of it. It’s not him, she tells him, and she means it whole-heartedly. He tells her he understands. She thinks he does, moreover. That doesn’t make it better.

This night, when his tentative, inviting hand on her shoulder finds only the same instinctive reaction – a reaction she struggles to conceal, but she can hide little from Jon, it seems – he gives a heavy sigh and scrubs a hand across a face suddenly too weary for his years.

“I confess that I am at a loss, Sansa,” he says unhappily. “I'd thought that with patience and persistence... No matter how gently I touch you, you flinch."

"I'm sorry-" she begins, but he stills her words with a kiss pressed to her forehead, his hands comforting as he grips her shoulders, none of the intent that makes her frighten so in them.

"No, please, don't apologize,” he murmurs against her hair. “You'll break my heart. Don't be sorry, sweetling, just tell me what you need from me. Shall I no longer touch you? I'd thought to stop before, but you still seemed to want my touch.” 

“I did want your touch,” she says, agitation making her words come out choked and thin-sounding. “I _do_.”

“But something troubles you,” he counters. “It’s destroying me that I can’t help you. Tell me what you need and I’ll do it, whatever it is, even if it means never touching you again.”

“Oh Jon, no, please.”

“Tell me how to help you, sweetling.”

“I don’t… Jon, I don’t know, I can’t…” He makes a sad sound and pulls her close, protecting her in the cage of his arms.

“Shhh, sweetheart, it’s all right.” She clings to him, wishing his words were true. Instead it’s wrong, things feel all wrong. For so long she’d been at the mercy of others, a pawn in cruel games not of her own devising. She’d been subject to their wishes and whims, unable to consider her own, let alone act on them. Even this marriage is someone else’s wish; however much she’s come to love Jon and could consider being married to no other, they’d still wed at the Targaryen Queen’s behest, honoring her desire to strengthen ties to the North by marrying her suddenly found nephew to the house that bore him. Sansa has been bound since she left her home, passed from one captor to another, her person and her trust so abused that she cringes from the one man she truly believes would never hurt her. That can be nothing but wrong.

“I want to feel safe,” she whispers into his shirtfront. “I want to choose for myself.” Saying the words solidifies them in her mind, makes them real and so sensible that she’s not sure how she didn’t see it before. She wants to choose how to touch, and when, she wants to say what is given and what is taken. She wants no more taken from her. Jon would never force her, she knows, would never take what she does not wish to give. But the ghosts that haunt her are deeper than he can reach.

“Choose what?” he asks when she doesn’t continue, his thumb rubbing a soothing arc on her back. It’s strange, but it gives her courage, that small caress.

“Everything,” she says. “I…” She casts about in her head, an idea forming, one that makes her feel strangely giddy, as if she’s relieved of a great burden. “I think… I think maybe if…”

He holds her away with both hands to search her face with the kindest eyes imaginable. “Tell me, poppet,” he urges. Her cheeks flame. She’s terrified he’ll be angry or disgusted, or worse, hurt. She knows so little of what’s truly done between a man and a woman. 

“Sansa,” he coaxes, “tell me. I’ll do anything you need.”

She plucks up her courage, taking a deep breath and expelling the words all at once. “Only maybe we could bind your hands,” she says. “With a scarf, perhaps? Or a length of linen?” His lips twitch into a surprised smile.

“You wish to tie me up?”

“No,” she says, blushing furiously. “That is, yes, but-” She makes a helpless sound, embarrassed by the request, at her inexperience and awkwardness. At the life she's led to make her need such a thing now with someone as gentle as Jon. She expects that he’ll ask why, that he’ll want to know what she plans. She fears that he’ll turn from her in disgust or laugh at her. But he only holds his hands out before him, side by side, the blue-white skin of his wrists looking more vulnerable than she thinks her heart can handle. Flustered, thrown by his unquestioning acceptance, she turns to her dresser, rummaging for something she can use to bind him. He’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt when she turns back to him, a silken scarf in her hands.

“Shall I leave my shirt on,” he asks, “or would you like me to remove it?” It hadn’t occurred to her that binding his wrists would make it impossible to take off. She’s certainly not very skilled at this. His calm almost doesn’t help. It makes her feel even more nervous.

“Remove it,” she says. “Please.”

“As my lady wishes.” He draws the cloth over his head and throws it aside. For a moment, she’s distracted by the stretch of his skin, the ripple of muscles beneath it. Her fingers itch to touch him, but she collects her errant wits and reminds herself of her task. She holds the scarf out – an offering of sorts, however curious – and he rubs the edge of it between his fingertips carefully.

“It’s my softest one,” she tells him, feeling strangely shy, and his expression at her words is almost as soft as the scarf. It makes her want to step into his arms and kiss him forever, until they’re both stooped and silver-haired. Oh, it is absurd to have such tender feelings when she’s about to truss him like a roast for supper, but she can’t stop herself.

“Thank you,” he says gently. Then he offers his wrists again. It strikes her how much he trusts her, how vulnerable he’ll be. How readily he puts himself to her care. Her hands tremble as she loops the scarf carefully around his wrists, winding it into a loose figure eight.

“You’ll want to tie it to something,” he says. “Perhaps the bedpost.”

“Oh. Yes.” That part hadn’t occurred to her, and suddenly she’s unsure. “Jon…” Her uncertainty must show on her face, because he gives her the sweetest smile and leans forward just enough to brush her lips with his.

“It’s all right, Sansa. Go ahead.” To prove his words, he steps in front of the post that holds the sleeping curtains and raises his hands, lacing them around the bedpost just behind his head. She has to stand on her toes to reach the trailing end of the scarf and tie it around the wooden post. Her breasts press against his side and he sucks in a quick breath, his body swaying towards her when she pulls away but unable to follow. Intrigued, she steps close again, lets the suddenly stiff peaks of her breasts brush his chest and then steps away, smiling when he strains towards her only to be brought up short by his bound wrists. Oh, there is definitely something to this.

“Are you comfortable?” she asks. The barest curve of his lips tells her that he is, the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, but he tells her so anyway.

“Yes.” There’s a roughened edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. She likes it. She wants to make it rougher yet. But when she thinks of what she might do to effect such a thing, she’s suddenly unsure and a little frightened. When he’d come to her before, she’d only received and accepted his attentions. Now that she must be more than passive, deeper fears surface, beyond the fears that made her skittish and wary in the first place. Fears that the unwanted touches – groping caresses from Harry and Marillion, mailed fists from Joffrey’s men, kisses stolen from her by her false father – that they’ve all tainted her on the inside, marred her with rot like a bruised pear gone bad. For the first time, she looks directly at the undercurrent to her fear, wondering if maybe it’s not just a man’s touch that she can’t trust, but her own desires. By the Maiden, she’s just tied him to a bedpost, surely that’s not something people do. What if she’s depraved? What if they’ve twisted her into something dark and wrong? 

“Sansa,” Jon says, looking at her with concern. “Sweetling, what’s wrong, why do you hesitate?”

“I don’t…” she shrugs miserably, “I don’t know what to do. What do I do?”

“Anything you wish,” he tells her, and his eyes are dark and serious, as hot as the fire at her back. An answering heat swirls in her belly, but still she hesitates, still her fears bind her as her scarf binds his wrists, and she ducks her head to stare at the floor where everything is ordinary and normal and safe, just feet and flagstones, nothing dark or twisted in sight.

“But what if…what if it’s something you don’t like?” she asks in a tiny voice, one she can barely hear in her own ears. “Or…or something you don’t wish, or something people just don’t _do_.”

“Sansa, my sweetest girl, I want you to listen to me very carefully,” he says, so seriously that it forces her eyes up to meet his. “There is not one bloody thing you could think to do to me that I haven’t already desperately dreamed of you doing, I promise you.” 

“But-”

“Not. One. Thing.” There is no untruth in his voice, nor in his face. Overcome, she throws herself against him, twining her arms so tightly about his ribs she half thinks she might hurt him. The curls of his hair are soft, tickling her nose until she buries her face more snugly against his neck. He can’t embrace her, but he kisses her temple, her ear, her cheek, he makes soothing murmurs that rumble in his chest where it presses to hers. She holds him until the tightness in her throat loosens, and then just a bit longer.

She’s still not sure what to do when she draws away. Given no limitations, she finds it difficult to know where to start. He says nothing, makes no move to hasten or hurry her. He just watches her, his face soft and open and true, truer than truth itself. His hair tumbles in disobedient curls over his forehead and into his eyes. With tentative fingers, she brushes it away, skimming over the line of his brow. She threads her fingers through his curls, watching fascinated as they resist her efforts to tame and smooth.

“Your hair is as soft as lamb’s wool,” she muses, and he smiles as he leans into her touch like a cat, his eyes half-closed in lazy pleasure.

“Yours feels cool and smooth,” he says. “Like the rounded stones at the bottom of streams in the wolfswood.”

“You're not touching my hair,” she points out with a smile.

“I remember.” His soft declaration sends a shiver up the line of her spine. When her fingers brush the shell of his ear, he makes a soft sound and tilts his head into her touch. Her other hand has settled on his bare chest and she can feel the thrum of his heart beneath her palm, a steady beat that holds her feet to the ground.

His skin is rougher than his hair when she shifts her hand to ghost over his face, it’s more textured to her touch. Scars show silvery white around his eye. She touches each one, feeling a pang in her heart at the pain they must have caused him. His brows are dark and coarse, they arch across his forehead like raven’s wings, his eyelashes dense like mink beneath them, eyelashes any girl would be jealous of. Softly, she trails her fingertips over those brows, along the crescent of his eyelashes, rubbing gently at the creases bracketing his eyes, following the path of his nose, slightly crooked like it’s been broken since they parted so many years ago, then down to skim the lips that part at her touch. They’re dry and soft, a bit chapped, and she runs her thumb across them, gasping when he closes his lips around it and sucks in a hot, wet pull that she feels between her thighs.

“Again,” she says, blushing at the command in her voice, but not caring when he gives her a wicked grin and captures her thumb again, sucking deeper and slower this time, his tongue curling around her knuckle.

“Jon,” she tells him, and he answers, “Sansa,” and she knows he hears what she has no words to say.

Her hands fall to his shoulders. She’s never touched him like this, never even really seen him so bare, not since they were children. Twice they’ve been together, and each time he’d kept his shirt and she her shift, his attempt, she thinks now, at not overwhelming her, at allowing her some barriers. Now she wishes he hadn’t. His skin is warm, golden from the fire. It feels even softer than it looks, even ridged with scars as it is. She traces them, the spidery lines that match the ones around his eye, feeling their raised surfaces and reading them with her fingertips, the history of his life without her. She hates them and she loves them in equal measure. The brush of her fingers over the flat disk of his nipple produces a sharp intake of breath, so she returns and repeats it, looking up to see his face as she does it. His mouth hangs open as he sucks air between his teeth, his eyes hot.

“Tell me what you would do if I untied you now,” she whispers, wanting to hear that rough edge to his voice again.

“I would take you in my arms,” he says. “I would kiss the breath from your lungs, kiss your neck and your shoulder and your collarbones. I would breathe in the smell of your hair, like rainwater and lemons left to warm in the sun.” Smiling, she walks her fingertips down the ladder of his ribs, fits her fingers in the shallow grooves between them. The hair on his chest is sparse, scattered only lightly under his collarbones and around his nipples, disappearing entirely before starting up heavier beneath his navel, coarse and dark to match the hair under his arms. The girl Sansa used to be would have looked at all of it with distaste. She hadn’t known that it was boys who were smooth, not men, though she would have vastly preferred boys then anyway even if she had known. The tingling in the pit of her stomach at the feel of Jon’s bristle makes it clear enough that she prefers boys no longer.

He jerks when she lays her palm over the hair arrowing down his belly, one fingertip dipping into his navel. She can feel him quivering under her hand, the muscles jumping and quaking. It makes her feel curiously powerful, that the barest touch from her would have him affected so. When she lifts her hand, his hips follow her, straining towards her. She stretches up to kiss him and he lowers his head to meet her, his kiss welcoming and eager and a little uncontrolled. 

Breaking the kiss is difficult. The longing on his face as he leans against the tension of the scarf to get closer to her when she steps away makes up for it.

It’s something she probably shouldn’t be proud of, the delight she takes in teasing him, stepping close, allowing him her mouth, only to step away again, just farther than he can reach. But he makes such delicious sounds, rumbling growls like losing her kiss truly pains him followed by urgent, appreciative moans at her return. His skin heats under her hands, growing warmer with each touch, the muscles alongside his spine rippling when she spreads her fingers wide and pulls him to her.

“Do you enjoy tormenting me?” he asks, panting, when she withdraws again.

“I do,” she confesses. “Is that terrible?”

“It’s wonderful,” he says. “Now come back here.” Still she stays out of reach, loving the way he can’t seem to keep his gaze from dropping to her lips again and again.

“Tell me what you would do if I untied you now.”

“I would kiss you so deeply we’d cease to be two people,” he says, his voice low and thrilling, his eyes setting her insides on fire. “I would lose my voice telling you of your beauty and how your body is almost as beautiful as your soul.”

She’s pressed against him again almost before he finishes the words, kissing him the way he spoke of kissing her, deep and hard enough to merge herself with him. She hooks her fingers in the waist of his breeches and tilts her head back entirely, giving herself over to the kiss. His mouth is hot, his tongue soft and insistent before he draws her own into his mouth and sucks on it.

Her hands won’t seem to stay still. They skim all over him, mapping swells of muscle and spurs of bone. She dips her fingertips low beneath his breeches, marveling in the catch of his breath, the quiver of his stomach against her knuckles. She’d never thought to explore a man in such a way before; her imagination had begun and ended in dreamy kisses, and the attentions of other men that she’d suffered had frightened her rather than making her wonder. But with Jon, she wonders, and she finds the boundaries of her imagination limiting rather than romantic, chafing rather than safe.

“Sansa,” he groans, sounding pained, when she curves her hand over the front of his breeches where she can feel him hard and hot even through the heavy twill of the cloth. He surges forward, increasing the contact briefly before regaining himself and backing away, and she stills, looking up at him.

“Is this not all right?”

“It’s more than all right,” he manages, “but Sansa, my response to you is…untidy. I don’t wish you to be frightened or repulsed.”

“How could I be, when it’s you I look upon?” she asks. Closing his eyes, he rests his forehead against hers. Then he draws back and looks up at the ceiling, clearly struggling for control, submitting to whatever she might wish. It touches her, that he would temper himself so for her. It gives her the bravery she needs.

His laces give easily at her tug, sliding free to loosen the placket of his breeches. She takes him in her hand, his manhood, his…his cock, she might as well call it such. Tentatively, gently, she explores him with her hand, watching the play of tension and pleasure on his face. When she rubs her thumb in just a certain way, it wrenches a harsh cry that sounds as if it comes from deep within his chest, and she startles, yanks her hand away.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks, but he’s shaking his head before she even says the words.

“It only hurts when you stop, sweetheart.” Reassured, she circles her fingers again, measures him from base to tip and repeats the motion when he moves into it.

“Tell me what you would do if I untied you now,” she whispers as she moves her hand.

“I would strip your gown from you,” he says, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes, his breathing harsh enough to stir her hair. “I would untie every ribbon on your shift and strip you bare, taste every inch of your skin. I would touch you the way you touch me now, if you’d let me.”

“What would it feel like?” she asks, transfixed.

“Good,” he tells her. “Only good. I would only ever make you feel good, Sansa.”

“You do,” she protests. “You have.”

“No, not yet, sweetheart. But I hope someday you’ll allow me and I can show you how very good I can make you feel.” He dips his head to hers, nuzzles the sensitive skin behind her ear. His words make her feel bold, unfettered. She squeezes her hand lightly, twists it as she moves, and she’s rewarded with a primal sound.

“You feel good to me now, hard and hot in my hand,” she says, her voice taking on a low tone she doesn’t recognize, one full of invitation and suggestion. “Will I feel that way to you, when you touch me like this?”

“No,” he pants, his hips bucking into her grip, urging her hand faster. “You’ll feel soft and warm and wet to me, so wet, better than anything else I could ever touch.”

“Do you think of touching me thus?” she asks. She returns her thumb to that spot that made him groan before and is not disappointed.

“Yes,” he hisses. “Often.”

“I’ve…I’ve wanted to touch myself like that, sometimes,” she confesses, feeling small and suddenly shamed. Something in her compels her honesty, drives her to expel these demons that live within her, but leaves her feeling unsure as well. As if sensing her conflict, he makes a wordless, soothing noise and lips at her jaw.

“I would like to watch you do it,” he says, and her head swims, she floats on a razor’s edge between shame and need.

“It would not disgust you?”

“It would reduce me to ash,” he says. “I could think of few sights more beautiful.”

“I only thought…” She trails off, thinking herself a pear gone bad again. How could she ever tell Jon of who she became in the Vale, a bastard girl who suffered her father’s kisses and burned with shame at how she sometimes thought to touch herself alone in her bed at night? How could she tell him of her fears at being something spoiled and wrong?

“Tell me, Sansa,” he urges gently.

“I thought it wrong. That ladies didn’t want such things or do such things. That…” She gulps, steadies herself to continue, her hand having stilled. She keeps her fingers around him, looped gently, and he feels strangely comforting in her hand, the heat of his body and the steady beat of his pulse familiar and solid. “I worried I was ruined by their attentions, those men who… The men, all of them. Not my reputation, but me. Inside. I fear I was ruined inside.”

“No, sweet girl,” he says in her ear, his kisses over her hair comforting and sure, “never. Never ever, they’re what’s ruined, not you. Nothing you wanted was wrong, only what was done to you.” She wants to believe him. More desperately than she’s wanted almost anything in her life. Seeking his touch, his reassurance, she tilts her head up, offers him her mouth, and she could cry when he takes it so gently and delicately that she could be made of spun sugar. If she is depraved, then he is just as much so as she, and she finds it matters little as long as Jon is with her. She wants to please him, to give back to him a small measure of what he gives her, so she moves her hand again, slides it over him as she kisses him, working her hand over the sleeve of skin that moves under her touch, touching her thumb to the smoother part beneath until he’s whimpering and shaking. She twines her free arm about his neck, holding him as closely as she can, and he takes her mouth like a man starving. Suddenly she feels heat spreading across the back of her hand, wetting the front of her gown in damp pulses and making it cling to her skin. He cries out into her mouth and she holds him tight, as tight as she can manage. When he slumps against her, she smiles, feeling like she’s learned a secret.

His knees are shaking. It’s a strange thing, to see Jon so weakened, so unsteady. He holds the bedpost as if it’s all that keeps him up, and she thinks maybe it is, given his weight against her. She reaches for the end of the scarf, standing on tiptoe against his chest to reach. The knot gives at her tug. She can see the question in his eyes as she lowers his wrists, still looped together with the remainder of the scarf. She only smiles, taking the end and pulling, leading him as if on a tether.

“Am I to be your plaything now?” he asks, but there’s laughter in his voice, something playful and light.

“Are you not already?” she asks impishly and he makes a happy sigh as she urges him onto the bed, lying with his arms above his head, bent at the elbow so that she may tie the scarf to the bedstead comfortably.

“For now and ever, my lady.” She shivers in delight at the words. He looks at her with such trust, such need. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to him looking at her that way, like she holds the moon and stars in her hands to make him a gift of them. His breeches still cling to his hips, so she tugs at them, works them down and tosses them aside to leave him entirely bare to her gaze. He neither shrinks nor shies. Only looks back at her and waits, unashamed and wanting. Stripping her of her gown, he’d said before. Untying the ribbons at the neck of her shift one by one.

His eyes grow wide when she begins to remove her gown, her fingers making busy work of it until she can draw it over her head to drop to the floor beside her. She trails one finger along the ribbons at her throat, the ribbons he wanted to untie, watching how his eyes fix on her finger and never leave it. Slowly, she pulls each ribbon free, until her shift lies open in a deep vee. It’s impossible not to notice that he’s already growing hard again. It shoots bolts of heat through her limbs, sets something to boiling low in her belly. She’s never been fully bare to his eyes before, and she hesitates before drawing the hem of her shift up to pull it over her head, thinking it must have left her hair in a state but not caring when she sees him swallow hard, his eyes like miniature suns. She's never devoted overmuch thought to her body before except as something that drew unwanted attention, something to be hidden both from those she called enemies and those who called themselves friends. Under Jon's gaze she becomes keenly aware of herself in a new, heady way, drawing her spine up straighter, deliberately pulling the fall of her hair over one shoulder and coiling it into a loose rope to flow between her breasts and leave them bare to him. He does not disappoint; he looks upon her as if she's a banquet and he the beggar. His fingers spread and move, seemingly unconsciously, as if to touch her if only he were unbound, and her skin tingles with the suggestion of it, his need at seeing her spurring her own need. Removing her smallclothes makes her balk, though, a measure of vulnerability she's not quite ready for yet, so she leaves them on and reaches to untie the ribbons holding up her hose.

“Don’t,” he says. She stills and cocks an eyebrow at him. “I’d like it if you left them on.” They’re her finest hose, a pretty lawn tied with ribbons the same blue of her eyes. They're entirely impractical for Winterfell but Sansa still likes some things of beauty and frivolity around her, and she’s glad of it now, at the look on his face as she climbs on the bed beside him and throws one hose-clad thigh over him to straddle his ribs. All her life she’s been praised for her beauty and it’s felt nothing but hollow. Only Jon makes her truly feel beautiful.

He’s watching her now, quietly, a look of expectation on his face. Again, she wonders what she should do. He offers no hint or direction. Absently, she brushes her fingertips over his chest, dragging across his flat nipple and pausing when he hisses. Struck by an idea, she wriggles down to sit low on his belly, feeling him hard against her backside when she bends and sets her tongue to his nipple. He groans at the contact, a groan that turns into a guttural sound when she replaces tongue with teeth and nips.

“ _Gods_.”

“What do they have to do with it?” she asks, peeking up at his face before swirling her tongue to soothe away the mark of her teeth, and he laughs breathlessly, looking at her in amazement.

“I’m enjoying this new Sansa,” he says. “Perhaps you should tie me up more often.” She only smiles against his ribs and continues to explore his chest and belly, loving the way he writhes and moans for her. Bit by bit, she works her way down, learning him, soothing each scar and mark with her tongue, amazed at this shameless, wanton creature she’s become. When she reaches his hips, she hesitates. She can feel him hard against her shoulder and neck, a sticky wetness brushing on to her throat. Then she decides that if she’s a wanton, she’ll not be a coy one.

He shoots off the bed like a loosed arrow at the first curious touch of her tongue, so emphatically that he almost unseats her. But she won’t be deterred. She smoothes her lips over him, runs her tongue in a line up the underside. It’s far from the worst thing she’s ever tasted, she decides. And the way it puts him so to pieces makes her think she’d not care at the taste, regardless, not when she can unravel him so with a few mere touches and tastes. He’s babbling now, an endless torrent of endearments; he calls her sweetheart, lovely, says Sansa, my Sansa, my sweetest girl, my most beautiful girl. It seems the more vulgar her actions, the sweeter his words, and she might laugh if it didn’t get into her heart and expand like to break it, like frozen water in the cracks of a boulder. She only applies her tongue to him more intently, wanting to wring the sweetest words she can from his lips, words so sweet as to cause caries in her teeth. She remembers the feel of him sucking on her thumb, how she felt it pull between her legs. Setting both hands on his thighs, pressing against the tremor in them, she circles the tip of him with her tongue, closes her lips around him to suck, and he makes a sound like he's almost in agony.

“Sansa,” he rasps, squirming beneath her, trying to dislodge her. “Don’t, no, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” she tells him. “I want to.”

“Oh gods,” he says, “and I want you to, but not now, please sweetling, I can’t bear it now. Come kiss me, leave that, there’ll be time plenty for that, just kiss me.” Disappointment spears through her. She knows he could not stop her, bound as he is, but she relents, crawling up to straddle his ribs again and duck her face to his. He leans up, meets her on her way, welcoming her with a hungry tongue. An ache pulses between her thighs and she rubs herself against his chest to ease it, beyond propriety, little caring about what might be shameful or wrong. He is with her. He is always with her and nothing between them could ever be wrong.

“That would feel better without your smallclothes,” he notes between kisses. She laughs, considers teasing him for his transparency, but she thinks him probably right. She gets to her feet, dipping and wobbling a bit on the unsteady surface of the mattress. His arms jerk against the scarf – to steady her, she thinks, the lovely boy – but he remains tethered and can only watch as she stands over him and slowly tugs the drawstring of her smallclothes loose. It takes a bit of balancing to work them down her legs and free herself, but she manages, standing again over him with her feet spread wide. He licks his lips and she smiles.

“Shall I leave these on, still?” she asks, fingering the edge of her hose. A hint of embarrassment flickers across his face, one that amuses her. This, of all things, is what embarrasses him?

“Yes. Please.”

After letting him look a moment longer, she sinks down to straddle him again, gasping at the contact of his skin on her naked flesh, a gasp that he matches with his own appreciative moan. “It does feel better,” she breathes, rubbing against him, feeling his answering rumble vibrate up through her more intimately than she’d expected. “Tell me what you would do if I untied you now, Jon.”

“I would bury my tongue in your sweet cunt for a thousand years, Sansa,” he says, rough and urgent, needy. “I would press my face to you and breath in the smell of your sex and I would lick and suck at every bit of you until you screamed my name, I would lick your release from you until you pushed me away and still I would want more.” Her entire body shudders at the words, gripping by a wanting so deep she has no idea how to release it.

“Y-you would do such a thing?” she asks.

“I’ve thought of doing little else since you returned to me,” he answers, only truth in his words. “I think on it waking and sleeping, when I take meals and dress in the morning and undress in the evening and most of the time in between. I dream of your cunt, Sansa, I dream of my mouth on you, of tasting your pleasure on the back of my tongue. You would be so sweet, the sweetest thing I’ll ever taste.”

“ _Jon._ ”

“It would be sweet for you as well, Sansa, you would want it as much as I, you’d dream of my tongue in your cunt, it would drive you to distraction. You would want me to drink of you, to sup on your cunt for every meal and I would do it happily, I would beg you for more. Someday I’ll show you, Sansa.” It takes so little, she thinks. So little to make her brave, to make her know what to do.

“Show me now,” she says.

She wriggles up, the spread of her thighs around his bound arms truly obscene as she shifts and squirms to get herself, to get her…her _cunt_ to the mouth that’s straining to reach it. She is shameless and wanton, behaving as if a slattern, and she cares nothing for it, cares only for the beautiful, perfect mouth she can’t get close enough to. The first touch of his tongue is staggering. It crashes through her like lightning, forking through the branches of her veins to set her body on fire. She can only think to get closer, to get more. She catches the loop of scarf between his wrists, uses it to leverage herself nearer. He does his best to tangle his fingers with hers and he licks and sucks at her, shakes his head from side to side, latches on and suckles until she could perish from it and be glad.

“Jon,” she says, “Jon, Jon, Jon, please, Jon, _please_.” She plants her hands behind her, thrusts her hips forward in a staggeringly vulgar way, lets her head fall back and moves her hips like she’s ahorse. He makes eager, reverent sounds against her, hums them up into her cunt, worships her like she’s the Maiden and the Mother at once, like she’s all gods there ever were or will be. He builds an altar with his tongue and she is helpless at it, helpless and powerful and perfect.

Her release takes her with debilitating force. She pushes herself against him, so much so that she would think he smothers but for the steady movement of his lips and tongue over her desperately sensitive flesh. It makes her quiver and jump, makes her pull away only to push back again, letting out a high, quavering cry when his tongue nudges in to her to lap at her release, licking her out with appalling, arousing wet sounds and appreciative moans. “Oh,” she says, “oh, oh, oh, oh,” and he doesn’t stop, he licks at her, licks into her, encourages her with his mouth and his rough sounds until she’s so spent she can’t even hold herself up anymore and she collapses backwards onto his stomach, her cunt still at his mouth. He seems to know how sensitive she is and his tongue gentles, slows, soothing her even as it wrings the last of her pleasure from her. She hadn’t known her body could feel such things or do such things.

He’s sucking hot, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of her thigh when she manages to push herself up, blushing at the sight of his face in the wide vee of her thighs, his eyes half closed in an expression of smug satisfaction, his tongue and lips pink against her pale skin and his hands clenched into fists where they’re still bound to the bedstead. He looks at her, licks his lips and closes his eyes in pleasure at the taste, and it makes her shudder again, makes her clench and flutter even though she’d thought herself quite depleted. She curls her body up, shifts to straddle his ribs, aching and pulsing where she's pressed to his warm skin. His heart beats like thunder under both hands where she curls them over his breast, wanting to feel the beating. It echoes in the throb of the pulse at his throat, in the throb that still makes a rhythm in her cunt where it’s pressed to him.

“Tell me what you would do if I untied you now,” she whispers, leaning close to him so that her hair falls about them both like a curtain. He looks at her with glittering eyes gone almost black, licks his lips again and shudders, her body vibrating with it. His words spill from him like water overflowing the banks of a river, vulgar and tender all at once.

“I would throw you to the bed and get my face in your cunt again, make you come like that again, make you come so sweet for me,” he tells her, voice like sand and silk combined. “I would lick up every bit of your release, taste every drop of your pleasure. I would crawl up your body and taste every bit of you along the way until I could get to your mouth and suck on your tongue, push my tongue inside the way I tongued your cunt before, and I would fuck you forever, I would feel you hot and tight around my cock and I would lose my head if I hadn’t already lost it the day you came back to me. Let me make love to you forever, Sansa, promise me, please promise.”

She has no words to make such a promise – indeed, she thinks no words ever could make that promise – so she pledges to him with her hands and her lips and the embrace of her body. She kisses him, tastes herself and licks the remains of it from his lips and chin. Even though she found her release only moments ago, she’s aching and restless, a sick-sweet burn firing every bit of her. Needing, wanting, she slides her hips down his chest, dragging a wet trail over his skin, and moves over the stiff length of his cock, not guiding it within her but trapping it beneath her. It slides easily when she rocks her hips, the remains of her release coating it slick. Now she makes a primal moan to match his, the sounds and sweet words come from her own lips, though she doesn’t know what she says, only that she can’t stop.

“Sansa,” he answers her, urging her hips with movements of his own, his feet planted on the bed to cradle her with his thighs. “My own Lady Sansa.”

“Tell me what you would do if I untied you now,” she pants, sitting up to rock her hips more urgently, needing more friction, needing something, _something_.

“I would bury myself inside you, Sansa. I want to find my release within you. Let me come inside you, sweet lady.”

She could no more deny his plea than she could stop the seasons from changing. Her fingers fumble as she seeks him, guides him inside her. It is not the first time, but still she has to shift and adjust, her body not yet used to the feel of him. He’s biting his lip, his whole body quivering with the effort to hold himself still and allow her her readiness. The times they’d coupled before, he had lain over her, and she’s unsure, knowing nothing of what she might do in such a position. Determining herself to discover this on her own, she begins to move, her hands braced on his belly so she can feel it jerk and quake with her movements. The times they’d done this before hadn’t been unpleasant in the act of it, it had not been the feel of him within her that brought her unhappiness. But it hadn’t felt like this. It hadn’t felt half as good as this.

She doesn’t ask him what he would do if he were untied. She doesn’t need to; he tells her as if nothing could stem his words, as if he understands her need to hear them. “If you untied me I would bury my face in your breasts, Sansa,” he says, his words strained, his voice filled with need. “I would let them bounce against my cheeks and taste them sweet on my tongue. I would sink my fingers into your hips and your arse, I would suck marks onto your breasts and chest and neck so no one could say you weren’t mine.”

It seems like a good idea, so she leans forward to do it to him, sucking a rose at the base of his neck. Then she bites and he stiffens, arching up into her with a hoarse cry, his seed spilling warm within her. She leans back on his thighs to ride his release out, thinking that perhaps a child will find purchase this time and they’ll make their own family, a new family, whole and perfect.

“Tell me…” she starts, but she need not finish the words. He’s panting with his release, looking at her with hot, worshipful eyes.

“I would touch you and bring you off with my fingers while I’m inside you.” If she would have had hesitation once to do such a thing, that hesitation no longer exists; no such compromised feeling could exist here with him like this, feeling all the things she feels. She dips her fingers low, her knuckles bumping his stomach, and tentatively touches herself with inexpert fingers, finding the spot that felt so good under his tongue. 

“Yes,” he encourages, “yes, that’s it. Good. Gods, sweetheart, you feel so good, you’re beautiful, everything about you is so beautiful.”

It takes only moments, his words hastening her along, stoking the fire that builds in her until it blooms out, leaving her to shake and tighten around him, pulling at him greedily. She collapses against his chest, tucks her face to the side of his neck with her lips over the mark she made on his skin. She shivers and shivers and feels more whole than she has in a very long time.

Another man would become impatient, she thinks, would grow weary of being trussed with his arms above his head. Jon only kisses her hair, holds her somehow without using his arms. He tangles his legs with hers, strokes her ankle with his instep.

“So are you ever going to untie me?” he says at last, though there’s no urgency to his words. Indeed, he seems as if he could lie with her this way forever and never complain.

“Yes,” she says. She kisses his neck over the mark she made, soft and open-mouthed, pressing her tongue to his skin before sucking to deepen the mark. Her knee is cocked over his hips and she thinks she feels a stirring of interest. “But I’m not done yet.” The groan he makes at her words is heartfelt and delighted.

“Be gentle,” he murmurs against her hair. She smiles and draws her nails lightly down his chest to make him arch into her touch like a cat.

“We’ll see,” she promises.


End file.
